FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Miles Rucastle frowned as he drove his Volvo station wagon along the lonely stretch of two lane highway in the back end of nowhere in particular. The mouse was hopelessly lost. He was in his mid-twenties with light brownish tan fur and a white underbelly, slightly tousled burnt orange hair cresting his head. He was dressed in a pristine white dress shirt, freshly pressed, without a tie, open at the neck, with a purple sweater vest over it, and loose khakis covering his long, thin legs.

He squinted through the smoky lenses of his aviator sunglasses at the seemingly endless stretch of baked road shimmering in the midsummer heat. Yep, he thought, he was definitely lost. He'd have to stop somewhere and ask for directions.

He was on his way to a business meeting, but somehow owing to his poor directional skills, he'd gotten turned around and been unable to find his way back to the main interstate. It was the hottest day of the year, too, and he was grateful for his Volvo's AC, which poured forth icy cool air over his body. In fact, it was a little too cold inside the car, making Miles feel like he was behind the wheel of an icebox on wheels. But it beat the alternative, which would involve sweating through his nice, freshly-pressed clothes, and the young mouse hoped to make a good impression at the meeting.

That was, if he ever found his way back to the main road.

There was a more pressing matter, as well, namely the fact he hadn't gone to the bathroom since leaving, and his bladder was full to exploding. In addition to asking for directions, he needed to find a working restroom.

Up ahead, he saw a battered, rusty sign advertising a Shell station. Two miles. Good. He stepped on the gas and made it there in record time. The place was a dump. The parking lot was cracked, overgrown with grass growing up from within the cracks crisscrossing the decades-old asphalt. The windows of the little convenience store were filthy. In fact, Miles' initial impression was that the station was abandoned, but then a skunk in overalls exited the store and went to pump gas into his ancient Honda, which looked like it'd seen better days, much like the station it was gassing up at.

Turning the wheel, Miles pulled into the parking lot. He slid to a stop and shut the motor off. Getting out, he stepped into the unforgiving heat. He winced even with his sunglasses on at the bright sunshine, and, after sparing a moment to watch the skunk filling up his gas tank, he turned and walked around the side of the store, following the directions of a placard that said "Restrooms Around Back." But to his dismay, he found the door locked, a sign hanging off of the knob that said "Out of Order."

He sighed. He could already feel himself sweating like crazy. Pit stains had begun to appear under his arms, and the seat of his pants felt damp.

"Shit," he said, and walked back around front, noticing a large, sleek black luxury sedan of indeterminate make pulling in. He went into the store.

The bell over the door dinged noisily as he entered. A wiry rat was behind the counter. "Hi," he said.

"Good afternoon," Miles said, and walked up. "I was wondering if I could get directions."

"Sure," the rat said, and after Miles made his inquiries, he gave him what sounded to him like pretty useful directions.

Nodding his thanks, Miles decided to sit for a bit in a small chair by the door, if only to take a load off for a bit. He removed his sunglasses, slipping them into the breast pocket of his shirt. The bell dinging made him look up as an enormous rat entered the store.

As the door slowly swung shut, the new customer nodded in greeting to his fellow rat behind the counter, then turned and eyed the mouse sitting by the door. This second rat was tall. No, more than that, he was gigantic. Not just the largest rat Miles had ever seen, but one of the largest individuals period. In spite of the summer heat, he was dressed in a full business suit made from a very expensive-looking material. A striped tie of the sort handed out at exclusive schools was drawn tightly at the rodent's throat. He wore pants which matched the dark fabric of the jacket, which hung loose down his legs. Dark, almost black, polished leather shoes adorned the rat's feet.

Narrow sunglasses were perched on his muzzle, hiding his eyes; as the mouse stared up into the enormous male's face, he discovered his own twin reflections staring back down at him.

The rat's body type was difficult to determine; although the jacket buttons strained over an enormous paunch that hung down from the rat's front like a frozen waterfall, the remainder of the huge male's body, so far as could ascertained of it underneath the clothes, was hard and fit. A long, thick tail snaked out from the rat's posterior to alternately drag along the floor of the convenience store or lash lazily in the air behind him. Miles was aware of an unusual smell. Mingling with the scent of stale tobacco and candy which lingered inside the store was a thick, male scene, a kind of musk that made the mouse think of locker rooms. It was not the stink of a sweaty, unwashed male with poor hygiene, though; rather, it was a very clean scent, as though the rat had showered very recently, but all the soap and body wash on Earth had failed to completely mask his true stink.

He reached up with one hand, the sunlight pouring through the windows glinting brilliantly off of a gold wristwatch that Miles assumed was a Rolex or some other extremely pricey brand, and he removed his sunglasses using that hand, allowing Miles to see his eyes. They stared at one another for a moment, and then the rat canted his head to one side, as though in expectation. Somehow, Miles knew the newcomer wanted him to remove his own shades, and somehow, he felt compelled to do so.

It was a spellbinding look. Miles swallowed. He felt oddly drawn to this male. He wasn't sure why. He wanted to think it was because this rat had a charisma unmatched by anyone, that being in his presence was akin to being close to God, somehow... but since entering, the tall rodent hadn't said a single word. Perhaps it was that scent.

The rat jangled a set of keys in his free hand, and absently Miles noticed they had a keychain shaped like the hood ornament of the expensive black car he'd seen outside. This, then, was the owner. Finally, the rat turned, breaking their eye contact, and addressed the cashier. As he walked past where Miles sat, the very tip of his long, naked tail touched the mouse's nose and slid tantalizingly along it, making Miles shudder.

"Fill 'er up on number three," he said, with just a hint of an accent Miles couldn't place. It sounded almost British. Maybe Australian.

"Sure, Rockwell," said the cashier, and walked out.

"Man," said the rat - Rockwell - with his back to the mouse, his enormous rear end facing him, "it sure is a hot day."

"It is," said Miles, whose head felt a little hazy, as though since their eye contact broke he was waking from a dream. "I'm on my way to the main interstate, myself."

Rockwell chuckled, a deep, throaty sound which the mouse found extremely attractive despite himself, and still didn't face him. "You're a long way off the beaten path, my boy," he said, and, slipping his sunglasses and keys into his pocket, unbuttoned his jacket. "I come through here a lot on business. I stop here often. Ray - that's the owner - has no end of complaints about me 'cause of the condition I typically leave the bathroom. Calls me the Toilet Terminator. But I always manage to get him to forgive me. You see, I, uh... I have a way with people."

Rockwell chuckled again. Deciding not to dwell on why the rat had volunteered what the mouse considered such vulgar information, Miles noticed perhaps for the first time that despite the heat and the fact he was wearing a full suit and tie, Rockwell wasn't sweating at all, or so it appeared, anyway. He fidgeted a little.

"Man," he said absently, to no one in particular, as though simply thinking aloud, since he still hadn't turned to face his fellow rodent, "I really need to use the little boys' room."

At that, something in Rockwell's voice compelled the mouse to rise. As if remembering his own need to go, Miles was suddenly determined to go the bathroom. He went to the door, and had his hands on the horizontal bar to push when something interjected itself into his foggy mind, a recent memory, a realization; the out-of-order sign.

Pausing, he turned to the big male, and said, "Uh, well, if that's the case, you're outta luck," he said in a manner he thought sounded conversational, but which came out of his mouth as a kind of drone. He wasn't sure why.

"That a fact?" said Rockwell, turning to him at last.

With his jacket open, his enormous belly stretching the shirt, the striped tie hanging down and off of the big paunch, was there for Miles to admire. And admire it he did, if only to avoid looking into those piercing eyes. Something about Rockwell's gaze made the mouse nervous. He felt as though he saw his destiny in them, a destiny he wasn't sure he liked... but one he'd be made to like, and that frightened him.

Miles nodded. "Yeah, I needed to go, myself, but it's out of order," he said at length. "There's a sign and everything."

A smirk crossed Rockwell's muzzle. "Not anymore," he said quietly. "Go take another look. You'll see what I mean..."

Nodding, again feeling compelled to go, this time more strongly, Miles pushed out the door and stepped into the hot summertime air. He could see the rat cashier - Ray? - filling up Rockwell's car, and he walked numbly around the corner to the rear of the building.

He stood facing the door. The sign saying "Out of Order" still hung from the doorknob in defiance of what Rockwell had said. Miles frowned. But that couldn't be, he thought; Rockwell wouldn't lie to him. He'd known the big rat for less than five minutes, but already he'd struck Miles as someone who always gave his word. And so Miles decided that the sign was lying.

Grabbing the treasonous thing, he took it off of the doorknob and discarded it in a nearby trashcan that was overflowing with stinky refuse, as though Ray hadn't emptied it in a week, and opened the door, entering the Shell station's bathroom.

The door shut behind him. He stood in total darkness, breathing deeply, still feeling as though he were in a weird dream and this was all so unreal. He turned, fumbling for a light switch, and found it, flicking it on. Dim yellow light flooded the room, which consisted of a cracked mirror over a filthy sink with a rusted drain, a urinal and a large stall. The door to the stall was shut. A stench unlike anything Miles had ever quite encountered flooded the mouse's noise, and he, despite feeling a transient urge to open the door and peek into the stall, he went to the urinal, and his sigh of intense relief echoed through the dingy room.

After doing his business, he tried to flush, only for nothing to happen when he jerked the handle down. He grumbled. He jerked harder and this time, with a loud whooshing sound that startled him out of his dreamlike state, his urine was flushed away down the pipes. He shook his head, nose wrinkling at the smell filling the room. Dimly, he wondered how he'd ever gotten in here, as, despite having only just entered, he had only the haziest of memories of taking the sign off the door and entering.

As he went to wash his hands in the sink, he noticed for the first time since entering that there was an enormous puddle of liquid coming out from under the closed stall door. Even in the yellowish lighting, Miles could tell it was tinged an unsightly brownish yellow. Morbid curiosity getting the better of him, the thin male stepped towards the stall, the smell he'd detected earlier growing stronger. It was definitely coming from inside. He paused for a moment with his hand on the door, before flinging it wide open. He actually gasped and stepped back as he beheld the true overwhelming majesty of what lay within.

A pile of turgid brown matter almost as tall as he was completely obscured the toilet, glistening wetly in the sick dim light. It was splattered on the stall walls and the tiles of the back wall, and piled on the floor. Any more and the stall would be entirely unable to contain it. Miles knew what it was. He felt his stomach heaving. He instinctively took a step forward as if to vomit into the toilet, before realizing there was no toilet, at least, none he wanted to go closer to, and, deciding the trashcan outside would do, he turned on heel, only to run smack into Rockwell's belly. The rat had entered while he was distracted staring at the tall mound of shit occupying the lone stall in the bathroom, and stood with his arms behind his back, smirking, as the boy ran into him.

Miles bounced off that big belly, staggered backwards, and slipped in the liquid - piss, and lots of it - on the floor. His legs flew out of from under him, and he would've fallen to the floor if a powerful hand hadn't shot out and seized his wrist, jerking him up to safety and helping him stand.

"You all right?" Rockwell asked.

Miles nodded, and retched again. His stomach churned and he could feel the small breakfast he'd had that morning threatening to come up.

The rat held up a finger. "Ah, ah, ahhh," he chided gently, and, as the vomit came up, he placed the finger on Miles's lips. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't ruin my suit," he said. Miles started calming down, and immediately his throat reversed gears, and he swallowed the puke back down to settle in his belly. "Thaaaat's better," said Rockwell. "Besides, I think, here in a minute, you're going to have a completely different opinion about all of this..."

That smell wafting off of him permeated Miles's nostrils again. Yes, he thought, he was having a change of heart. The rancid pile glistening and stinking behind him was a lovely thing. How had he not realized that earlier? He felt silly, and blushed a little. Rockwell chuckled, and stuffed his entire finger into the mouse's mouth for him to suck on, which he did eagerly as the rat started loosening his tie.

"The toilet's not out of order, my boy, because you're here," he said. "Isn't that right?"

Miles nodded. With a slow slurp, the finger was extracted from his mouth. Rockwell made a point of wiping the saliva off on the mouse's sweater vest, then stepped back and shrugged off his jacket.

"Undo my belt buckle," he said simply.

Miles, driven by something he was powerless to define or to resist, knelt down, heedless of the wetness seeping into the knees of his khakis, and started unbuckling Rockwell's belt. The rat's pants fell to the floor, the belt buckle clinking noisily on the tiles. Next came his underwear. His enormous cock, a musky odor pouring off of it, jutted proudly from his groin. He smirked, and the mouse, somehow instinctively knowing what to do, opened wide and took the end of the monster into his mouth.

Rockwell relaxed, and suddenly Miles felt a musky hot liquid entering his mouth. He coughed and spluttered, but the smell coming off of the rat quickly made him reconsider spitting the mouthful out, and, as hot, musky piss dribbled out from around the cock, the mouse turned toilet voided all thoughts of resistance from his mind, all notions that this was wrong, unsanitary and revolting, and drank the liquid waste from the huge rat's cock.

Rockwell sighed and leaned back as he emptied his bladder into his new toilet. His big tail slithered around behind him like a snake. He did enjoy these business trips. It wasn't about the destination, after all, it was about the journey, specifically the various rest stops. He had bathrooms just like this at other gas stations along the same stretch of road, where he turned many an unwitting young male motorist into his personal toilet. Miles was just the latest. He reached down and petted through the young male's hair, forcing his head further along his cock.

Miles drank all that the rat gave him down. By the time Rockwell let out another sigh and the flow eased off, the mouse's belly was sloshing and bulging slightly. When Rockwell released his head, Miles pulled back and took a great gulp of air, most of which he swallowed. He felt his stomach churn, and a belch came up. It echoed off the walls. He politely covered his mouth so the little sprinklets of piss and saliva wouldn't get on the rat, his newfound master. In his khakis, the young man's cock was rock hard, tending the pants obscenely. Gone were thoughts of his business meeting, along with his concerns about making a good impression; he only had eyes for Rockwell, here in this filthy, stinking Shell station men's room, and if he never left it, he would've been perfectly happy. He felt content and fulfilled, kneeling and worshiping his new god.

"That's a good little toilet," Rockwell said, his voice a throaty purr, and he looked down at the kneeling mouse, smirking in delight at taking over Miles' mind and using him for his own fetid purposes. "Now then, let's see about making you a little more comfortable, shall we? Why don't you take those clothes off. We don't want them getting too dirty."

Miles was on his feet in a flash. His vest was over his head and off of him in seconds. It went fluttering away to land on the floor. The shirt joined it, once the mouse's trembling, eager fingers managed to get the buttons undone, Miles' sunglasses flying out of the pocket and clattering away across the filthy floor. Then came his pants, the knees of which were soaked through with the piss and shit tainted water he'd been kneeling in, not that he cared. His briefs bulged with his arousal, and soon they, too, were shoved down his thin legs and off of his feet, which remained clad in shoes and socks, the latter of which were pulled up onto his calves and secured by a pair of imitation leather sock suspenders. Neither he nor Rockwell seemed overly concerned about those.

Gently, Rockwell took Miles by the arms and moved him backwards into the stall. Bending at the waist, he laid the mouse back into the pile of slimy, fetid waste, and with a groan, Miles felt himself sinking back into it, feeling it getting into his fur and hair, oozing into his ass crack. The rancid stink completely overwhelmed him and further ensured that from now on, until Rockwell chose to release him, the thin mouse was completely enslaved to this incredibly powerful, masculine rat.

Rockwell felt his stomach gurgle. He laid one hand across his belly. "And now, lad, I think it's time I really took a load off. Open wide."

He turned, lifting his tail, and, from his position sprawled in the pile of shit that had overtaken the toilet, Miles watched, wide-eyed, as the enormous rear end of the rat came into view and Rockwell squatted over him. He pushed himself up on his elbows as best as he could, given the fact the floor underneath him was slippery and slimy and covered in a thick layer of soft, oozing rat feces, and opened wide for his treat. It was time to get fed.

That huge ass edged closer and closer, with the rat smirking over his shoulder at the young mouse lying sprawled in the fetid pile. Even before it'd reached its destination, his bowels loosened a bit, and the wrinkled, musky anus opened, the ass cheeks parting slightly, and the wide-eyed mouse watched as the thick, gnarled tip of a brown log emerged. He licked his lips, and edged forwards until his lips touched the turd, and spread around it, and as Rockwell grunted and pushed, more and more of the thick turd flowing into Miles' mouth, the smaller rodent sucked on it like it was a cock. Even after that turd had left the rat's ass, another followed. Miles still had the first one in his mouth, but he gladly and greedily accepted the second, which was far larger. He mushed and chewed both soft rancid logs, the fecal matter squelching and oozing between his teeth, as he mashed his muzzle directly between Rockwell's cheeks and licked and kissed along the generous asshole which was feeding him.

Even as he swallowed the first mouthful, so huge that it made his eyes water from the effort of choking it down, Rockwell groaned and a thick, wet fart rippled forth from the rodent's bowels, directly into Miles's open, eager mouth. A third, slightly less solid log of shit followed, and Miles ensured he'd get it all by placing his gaping maw directly over the rat's hole, allowing the coiling turd to flow straight in and pile over his undulating tongue. He was having the time of his life, and his cock was harder than it had ever been. How had he never even considered something like this before? He supposed it just took a real manly rat like Rockwell to show a little mouse like him the ropes and introduce him to the joys of being nothing but a filthy toilet.

"Someone sure was hungry," Rockwell commented as he finished squeezing out the third log. "I got a little more left in me, so how 'bout some dessert?"

There was a muffled response of approval as Miles happily chewed and swallowed. He belched up shit-smelling breath, and grabbed hold of the enormous ass cheeks and spread them wide, as a torrent of liquid diarrhea flowed out over his face, oozing down his naked body, his cock throbbing harder than ever, leaking slimy precum from its tip. The shit wasn't entirely liquid; it had some thick chunklets in it, reminding the mouse of the consistently of chili or particularly soggy breakfast cereal. But this gloriously foul, stinking mess was no chili or cereal. No, it was the most revolting, putrid, unsanitary waste on God's Earth, and, to Miles in that moment of crazed bathroom lust, the most glorious gift he'd ever received. He closed his eyes and moaned, dribbling filthy diarrheal soup from his lips as Rockwell's horrifyingly sexy gift oozed and flowed over his submissive form, occasionally opening his mouth to catch a big mouthful to swallow down. This was one toilet mouse who was not out of order.

By now, Miles' stomach was swollen immensely, and gurgling loudly. If he consumed any more, he'd likely burst, but he didn't care. He kept eating as the rat arched his back, licking his lips, rubbing skilled, powerful hands over his own raging erection, enjoying his use of his new toilet, while the mouse underneath and behind him kept gulping down liquid shit, and the rat had more left to give. Finally, Miles could endure no more; the spirit was willing, as was his thoroughly lust-crazed mind, but his physical body could stand it no longer, and so, with a final swallow punctuated by a wet fart right in his face, the toilet mouse fell backwards into the pile of shit that covered the bathroom floor, and lay there panting, belching and wriggling in a mixture of agony and ecstasy, gripping his hard-on and jerking it wildly, as Rockwell squatted over him and pushed the remainder of his bowels' load down all over him, drenching him completely in wet, slimy diarrehal discharge. The mouse came hard, adding his meager white load to the brown that covered everything - everything except Rockwell, who'd gotten not a sprinklet on him.

Rockwell eased himself into an orgasm, grunting as he squirted forth a thick, firehose-like stream to splatter messily on the far wall. It dripped down in thick, slimy rivers. This, too, he managed to avoid getting on him.

"There we go, my boy," said Rockwell. "Now, my lovely little toilet, please be so kind as to give me a good wipe..."

Miles sat up, dripping, stinking, and licked Rockwell's ass clean. As a thank you, he received another expulsion of gas right in his face. He closed his eyes and let the fart waft over him as he slowly leaned back into the soft pile behind him, getting comfortable. He didn't feel like leaving just yet. He was a toilet, after all, and bathrooms were where toilets belonged.

"Good work," said Rockwell, rising and turning, putting his pants and underwear back on and retrieving his jacket from the sink. "I'll be back through here later tonight, so why don't you stick around? I have a feeling I'll need your services again..."

And with that, he walked out, turning off the light, plunging the panting mouse into darkness.

The End.